By Kate Bornstein
“I used to be born male and now I’ve acquired clinical and executive files that say I’m female—but I don’t name myself a girl, and i do know I’m no longer a guy. . . .”
Scientologist, husband and father, tranny, sailor, slave, playwright, dyke, gender outlaw—these are only a couple of phrases that have outlined Kate Bornstein in the course of her remarkable lifestyles. For the 1st time, all of it comes jointly in A Queer and delightful Danger, Kate Bornstein’s stunningly unique memoir that’s set to alter lives and enrapture readers.
Wickedly humorous and disarmingly sincere, this can be Bornstein’s such a lot intimate publication but. With knowledge, wit, and an unwavering answer to inform the reality (“I mustn't ever inform lies”), Bornstein stocks her tale: from a pleasant Jewish boy becoming up in New Jersey to a strappingly good-looking lieutenant of the Church of Scientology’s Sea flagship vessel, and later to Nineties Seattle, the place she turns into a emerging celebrity within the lesbian group. In among there are better halves and enthusiasts, heartbreak and triumph, bridges mended and damaged, and a trip of self-discovery that might mesmerize readers.
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Extra resources for A Queer and Pleasant Danger: A Memoir
Goethe always carried violet seeds on his country walks and scattered them. The violet held a secret. Along the hedgerow that ran down to the cliffs at Hordle deep purple violets grew — perhaps no more than a dozen plants. I stumbled across them late one sunny March afternoon as I came up the cliff path from the sea. They were hidden in a small recess. I stood for some moments dazzled by them. Day after day I returned from the dull regimental existence of an English 37 MODERN NATURE boarding school to my secret garden - the first of many that blossomed in my dreams.
It wakes me through the bedroom window and then stays with me all day. There are no trees or hills to hide it. When it sets over the flatlands in the west I sit and watch it on a throne-like chair that I rescued from a rubbish dump. I never miss the setting sun, however cold the weather. Tonight it hangs huge and scarlet after a day of dark clouds. It appears for a few brief minutes, a perfect circle before disappearing - then the darkness comes rushing across the sky to embrace the inky timbers of Prospect Cottage; but before the light is extinguished the house reflects gold, or, as this evening, blazes ruby, its panes of glass a dazzling scarlet.
On it is a reading lamp of tarnished copper, two pewter mugs full of stamps, loose change, paperclips, several bottles of ink, and pens, envelopes, scraps of paper on which to make notes for this diary, an iron spittoon used as an ashtray; in the centre a lead tobacco box in the shape of a little Victorian cottage, in which I keep my chequebook and money. To the left and right against the wall are two Red Cross medicine chests 32 MARCH from an army surplus store; here I keep my clothes. A large oak chest dominates the room: it has 15th century panels carved with decorative ogee arches, perhaps once part of a rood screen.